fic: Oliver and Guiterrez part 1
Original fic. Rated R for violence, sexual content. Inspired by a trip to Thomas Jefferson's plantation. Title suggestions desperately needed.
CHAPTER ONE
Captain Oliver woke suddenly. He straightened in his chair and winced. Falling asleep on his desk caused all of his neck and shoulder muscles to cramp, but he’d been doing it more and more frequently of late. He ran his fingers through his military brush cut and checked that his eye patch was still in place. Five months ago, falling asleep on the job would have earned him a knife across the throat from a rebel scout. That was before he had lost his right eye and with it his active duty assignment.
The captain stood and put on his uniform jacket and cap before going to inspect camp. He picked up his flail and checked it carefully, even though he was certain he had gotten all of the blood off during the previous night’s cleaning. Before stepping outside he pulled his revolver, checked the ammo and returned it to its holster with practiced motions. He walked towards the camp’s one entrance, where a truck was already unloading the prisoners. He could tell that these rats had come straight from the front: they didn’t have the sunken, dull eyes that marked transferred prisoners. Sergeant Harvey was keeping them silent with just the sound of his riding crop slapping against his thigh. When one of the shackled men began to whisper to his neighbor, Harvey was on them instantly, his weapon leaving bloody welts on their arms and shoulders.
Oliver frowned at the line. There were three sets of empty shackles. It was army policy to only count the prisoners when they reached a prison camp, but it was difficult enough reaching coal quotas without healthy prisoners being killed in transport. He looked for the driver, but he was missing. So were several of the guards who should have been watching the gates. “Sergeant,” he barked, “where the hell are the rest of the guards?”
Harvey snapped an automatic salute. “They’re reeducating a prisoner, sir.”
Under his breath, Oliver cursed his assignment as commander of the eastern labor camp and the men who supposedly followed his orders. Returning the salute, he set out at a brisk jog towards the back of the cantina, one of the few places in the camp that was not visible to his office or the guard towers. He heard the familiar sounds of flesh being struck just before he rounded the corner and saw the “reeducation” taking place. A prisoner was pinned flat on the ground by a boot on the side of his head. A soldier was taking his turn kicking the prone man in the side and stomach while a man Oliver didn’t recognize-doubtless the driver-knelt on the victim’s legs to keep him immobile. From his light skin, the victim was clearly a half-breed, which was unusual enough to have gotten the guards’ particular attentions.
“Stop!” The soldiers, accustomed to obeying that tone of command without question, backed away and saluted. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Command has once again increased the expected production of this mine, and we haven’t been meeting quotas as it is. The only way we will meet this week’s goal is for these additional prisoners to be able to work. That is the reason-the ONLY reason-we are here, men. To make sure the work gets done. If the prisoners are unable to work, I swear to Misha it will be you four down in the tunnels.” The captain stared down his men. “Privates Malloy, Harrison and Jacobs. Consecutive latrine duty for three weeks each. Lieutenant Fawkes, you’ll be overseeing the mine for the next month. And go put on a fresh uniform; you have blood on your collar. As for you,” he said, turning to the driver, “your CO will hear about this. You are all dismissed; get the hell back to your stations right now.”
The men left, their angry grumbling too quiet for Oliver to call them on it. He knelt next to the prisoner, who was slowly sitting up and pulling his rough-spun shirt down to cover his injuries. A bruise on his right side was already turning dark; there was likely internal bleeding. Oliver grabbed his elbow to help him to his feet but froze when the prisoner turned to face him. “You,” Oliver exclaimed. Even with one eye swollen mostly shut and a broken nose, the captain couldn’t fail to recognize the rebel leader whose face was smeared across a hundred war posters. “You’re the younger Guiterrez.”
Staggering to his feet under his own power, the darker man said, “If you expect me to thank you, you will be disappointed.” He spoke softly with an upper-class, cultured accent. Oliver struck the man’s jaw. Did the uppity rat really think that just because he spoke like an educated man, he would be treated as one? Guiterrez didn’t flinch from the blow and met the captain’s eyes, goading him to strike again.
Oliver’s anger died suddenly. There was a ghost of something he recognized in the prisoner’s level gaze. Looking closer, the camp commander could see the delicate scars tracing his hands and arms. This man had been reported captured two months ago, and had doubtless spent the intervening time under the care of Central’s most talented interrogators. In his career the captain had met a number of those cold-eyed men with surgeon’s fingers, and he counted himself lucky to have only witnessed them in action twice. He had seen the results of their work more often; their prisoners usually arrived at the camp as zombies who wouldn’t eat or sleep unless ordered and would soil themselves or collapse shaking at loud noises. Fortunately, they usually recovered basic functionality within a couple of weeks left in the care of their fellow prisoners. Judging from the fresh scars, this man had recovered with astonishing speed. Guiterrez returned the captain’s scrutiny with quick blue eyes that almost hid the hollowness of old terror.
Trying to ignore the scrutiny, the captain escorted Guiterrez back to the other new arrivals, pleased to see that James was already examining them. Each was instructed to perform a number of exercises and to cough. The previous commander of the Eastern prisoner’s camp had resigned in disgrace after nearly all of his prisoners had died from the red cough; Oliver would rather execute all these prisoners as contaminated than risk a repeat. When he was finished, the doctor reported in an undertone, “The majority are in good health. Remarkably well-fed, considering the famine. Fifth from the right has an infected cut on his back; I’ll lance it and clean it out. Should be obvious in a few days whether or not he’ll make it. Third from the right has a torn tendon in his knee. He won’t be able to work.”
Oliver walked down the line, confirming what the doctor had reported. The rats were remarkably well-fed, without the sunken eyes or bloated stomachs he was accustomed to seeing from prisoners and was starting to see even among Central’s civilian population. How were the rebels surviving a three-year famine that should have wiped them out completely, given how much the dogs had always relied on the Central government’s charitable handouts? Oliver didn’t have time to figure it out now: he needed to put on a show that would keep the bastards in line.
The camp commander didn’t hesitate when he reached the man with the torn tendon. He wrapped an arm around the back of the prisoner’s neck, grabbed his chin, and pulled firmly. Oliver felt the spine snap and let the body fall. The captain fully expected the gasp of shock from the prisoners and the enraged attack, but not the latter’s speed. Before he could elbow his attacker in the nose, a dark, thick arm snaked around his neck from behind and lifted him off his feet. Oliver stomped a booted foot onto one of the assailant’s bare ones and jerked his head back, feeling the head-butt connect and break the man’s nose. Unfortunately, his arm didn’t loosen at all. There was shouting as soldiers tried to find a way to shoot the prisoner without endangering their commanding officer and the sound of gunfire as they tried to scare the attacker. Oliver felt fingers on his jaw turning his head to the right, but didn’t register the rat’s intentions until his head was slowly rotated beyond ninety degrees and his neck muscles began to tear. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Mantay, stop! Release him.” The voice’s unmistakable authority cut through all the other noise, and Oliver’s jaw-if not his throat-was released. The captain could only blink at the pale brown hand that rested on the arm encircling his throat.
“He killed Gupta. Like he was just an animal to be put down.” The low voice rumbled under Oliver’s ear, and the captain could feel that the large man was tensed to the breaking point.
“Mantay, we both know he wouldn’t have lasted a week here, not with his leg hurt like that. At least he died quick. Now let the white man go.” Black dots were creeping in from the edges of Oliver’s vision, blotting everything out. When he was suddenly released he stumbled forward, hands grabbing onto someone to keep from falling down. Gasping and choking on the fresh air, the captain’s sight cleared enough to see blue eyes in a brown face; Oliver discovered that his hand was gripping Guiterrez’s shoulder for support. The rebel leader frowned and gripped his shoulder in return-hard. “You owe me. Don’t kill Mantay.”
Then Harvey was there, crop swinging, and the support was gone. “Captain! Are you all right, sir? I’ll take care of the damned rabid beast,” Harvey offered, pulling his pistol and taking aim at Mantay.
“Don’t.”
Harvey paused, cocked his head. “Did you want to kill him yourself, sir?”
The camp commander took a deep breath, pleased that the bruising around his throat wasn’t too bad. “Put shackles on his feet, but not on his hands. And take this.” He handed Harvey his pistol, overrode the soldier’s protests and watched as another man shackled Mantay. Oliver took a rifle from one of the guards, unloaded it and turned to stare down his opponent, who was standing relaxed but ready. The soldiers had gotten in a few good hits; one of Mantay’s eyes was swelling shut and his nose was broken, but he seemed otherwise uninjured.
“What’s your number?”
A mutinous expression crossed Mantay’s face, but he looked to Guiterrez, who shook his head slightly. “Sixteen hundred and thirty-one,” the man growled.
Oliver stripped out of his uniform jacket. “Prisoner one-six-three-one, in my fourteen months here you’re the first rat to get the drop on me. You have my full attention now. When you come at me this time, none of the guards will stop you.”
Mantay looked at the other soldiers, his suspicion obvious when he turned to face the camp commander. He had at least three inches and ninety pounds on the wiry captain. “You gonna beat me down with an empty gun?”
Oliver’s smile could have cut glass. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
From the first charge, Mantay’s strategy was obvious: get in close and rip the rifle away or pin the smaller man. Still, his speed managed to catch Oliver off guard again. The captain rolled with the punch to his stomach, going into a backward somersault and regaining his feet just in time to sidestep another blow. He immediately caught the larger man in the jaw with a side snap before knocking the air out of him with a spinning back-kick to the sternum. A quick blow to the skull with the butt of the rifle would have put him down for the count, but Mantay blocked and sent the captain flying with a backhand. The smaller man tasted blood. Oliver managed to sweep his opponent, but staggered when Mantay landed a solid kick from the ground that made his knee buckle. Oliver rolled away again and threw Mantay the next time he charged. Immediately Oliver was on top of him, straddling his chest and once again striking his temple with the butt of the gun. Mantay’s hands closed around the captain’s bruised throat. Before Harvey could interfere, Oliver struck the inside of his opponent’s elbows hard enough to loosen the grip and twisted up and out of reach. Mantay stumbled to his feet, the glazed look in his eyes suggesting that he had a concussion.
From that point on the fight became more of a beating, as Mantay could no longer block the side-thrusts and roundhouse kicks that Oliver rained down while staying just out of the reach of the prisoner’s arms. Still, the captain was sweating and red-faced by the time Mantay was no longer able to rise. The camp commander gestured the doctor over to check on the fallen fighter and quickly did a check of his own teeth and jaw, pleased to find them intact. Glancing at the prisoners, he was pleased to see that they seemed suitably cowed; all except Guiterrez, who was watching the captain with an inscrutable expression.
“As soon as the doc’s done checking him over, I want prisoner one-six-three-one shackled hand and food and chained to the bunk nearest the door. He won’t be eating for the next three days. Get the rest assigned to work crews, fed and locked in for the night. Except him,” Oliver pointed to Guiterrez. “Have the doctor take a look and then bring him to my office.” With his jacket over his arm, the captain walked stiffly away after retrieving his pistol, stopping by the infirmary for an ice pack and a few painkillers before returning to his office. He stripped off his dirty, bloodstained undershirt, wondering if it came from his split lip or Mantay’s bloody nose. He filled the sink with cold water and plunged his face in, swishing some around in his mouth to rinse out the cut there. Hearing a rap on the door, he pulled on a clean shirt and called, “Come in.”
“What did the doctor say?” He asked the young soldier escorting Guiterrez.
“Sir! He said there was heavy bruising on prisoner one-four-seven-five, but nothing life-threatening. He recommended light work for the next few days, sir!”
“Good. You’re dismissed.” They saluted each other and the young soldier began to pull Guiterrez out. “Leave the prisoner.” The guard looked as if he wanted to protest, but thought better of it and left.
The captain walked to the corner cabinet where he kept glasses and a pitcher of water. There was brandy too, but Oliver was trying to ignore it until tonight at least. He filled two glasses with water and put one on the desk in front of Guiterrez, who was looking around the office with a measuring gaze. Oliver sat and drank while watching the other man, trying to understand why Command had sent the former rebel commander to a small prisoner camp. The younger Guiterrez was commonly acknowledged--and cursed--as a tactical genius. If they were finished interrogating him, why would he be placed at a prison camp instead of executed and his body paraded through the streets? Frankly, it made Oliver nervous to have the man in his custody. It was only a matter of time until the next riot, and the captain didn’t want one to succeed on his watch. Which left Oliver with two choices: summarily execute Guiterrez and risk a reprimand from his superiors, or find a way to turn the other prisoners against him.
Assuring himself that the decision wasn’t because the man had saved his life, Oliver made his pitch: “I’ve decided to take you under my protection. You’re a quick thinker, and I think the other prisoners may listen to you, so you’ll be my go-between. You should be able to understand just how precarious this camp’s position is. If our production falls further below quota, if there’s an outbreak of the cough, or if there’s a riot, Command won’t bother to transport all of the prisoners to other camps; they’ll just raze the camp. So I need you to keep the others in line, let me know what’s brewing while I can still head it off. You’ll get permanent light duty and a larger food ration, not to mention protection from the guards.”
“If I refuse?”
First the carrot, then the stick. They both knew how it worked. “The one who attacked me will be executed at dawn.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then it seems I must accept your gracious offer.”
“Good. This arrangement should benefit us both, prisoner one-four-seven-five.” He had caved quickly; it seemed that, reputation nonwithstanding, the younger Guiterrez was going to be managable. Oliver touched a button on his desk and spoke into the intercom: “Private? Come fetch the prisoner. Get him dinner and take him to the barracks.”
The prisoner shuffled out with his escort, who was staring at the half-breed with a mix of hatred and awe. Oliver realized that protecting the former rebel leader from the guards wouldn’t be a simple task. He’d have to talk to second leutenant Forge about it in the morning.
Oliver sat in his empty office, fingering his dog tags. It was still early in the afternoon; he could call his wife, ask her to prepare a meal for four tonight, and be home in time for dinner with his family. He dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Anne. How are you?”
“…Great! I’m just great, honey.” Anxious. Wondering if she had been found out.
Oliver felt a spike of anger, but it dissipated almost immediately. How could he expect his wife to be faithful when he had been shutting her out for so long? She needed someone who would come home every night and talk about his day, his little hopes and fears. Someone who would tell her about the nightmares when he woke covered in sweat and trying to escape her embrace. Oliver couldn’t do that for her, not anymore.
He wouldn’t divorce her, not when his military position was the only thing guaranteeing that she and their two children received full meat and milk rations. As long as she was discreet, she deserved to find comfort where she could. Maybe she’d find a better father for the children.
“I can’t come home tonight. I’m sorry, Anne. There’s just too much work I have to finish.”
“That’s all right.” Too quick, too cheery. She didn’t even try to pull him home anymore. “I understand how important your job is. Are you eating well, dear?” The unasked question: are you still drinking yourself to sleep at night?
“Yes, Anne, I am. Give my love to the children.” He hung up the phone and poured himself the first glass of brandy.
CHAPTER TWO
It was between three and four o’clock when Oliver finally gave up on falling asleep without a sedative. He didn’t wake James; the nosy bastard would know immediately that he had been drinking and refuse to give him drugs. Worse, the doctor might try to get him to talk about the nightmares. There were things that shouldn’t be talked about, ever. He and James had gone to war together, so the doctor should have understood that rule. Oliver used his master key to open the clinic’s medicine cabinet and stole one of the medicine bottles way in the back so James wouldn’t notice immediately. When he shook out half a dozen of the pills in his hand, he paused. The green tablets had been replaced by large white-and-pink capsules that seemed familliar. When he remembered where he’d seen them, he dropped the bottle, and the damning pills scattered across the floor.
It was the oral vaccine for the red cough. All military personnel and the civilian population had received the vaccine years ago, which meant the only population at risk for the red cough were newborns and rebels.
Frantic now, Oliver pulled bottles from the cabinet and started dumping them on the counter, scattering about pills and capsules of all sizes and shapes. But over and over again, regardless of the label, the bottle was filled with the white-and-pink capsules. If it had been one or two bottles, or of a little-used type, he could have believed Jim was unaware of the smuggling. With this kind of evidence, though... “Jim, damn you, what have you done?” he cursed aloud, then whirled about when the door to the doctor’s apartment opened.
James stood there, rumpled in his bedclothes. “Oliver? What are you doing ...?” What James saw in Oliver’s face stopped him cold even before he noticed the vaccine pills.
James threw himself back inside his room, but Oliver lunged forward and wedged his foot inside before the man could close the door. Giving up, James scrambled over the bed and reached for his bedside table. Oliver grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him back, but James already had the weapon in his hand. Oliver grappled with him, pitting rage against the other’s desperation, and he managed to pin the other’s wrists to the bed. It was at this point that he realized the supposed weapon was a wristwatch.
James took advantage of the moment’s distraction to break the stronger man’s hold. He squeezed the link next to the watch’s catch, which popped open to reveal an amber-colored pill nestled inside. Terror surged inside Oliver. He clapped one hand over James’s mouth while trying to snatch away the cyanide pill with the other. James clenched the suicide pill in his fist and struggled to get it into his mouth but he was outmatched. After a desperate struggle, he sagged against the bed and let Oliver confiscate the pill.
“You son of a bitch, you traitor!” Oliver managed past the fear that still threatened to close his throat. “I can’t believe that you would . . .”
“I’m sorry,” James said, barely louder than a whisper.
“Why? What made you turn traitor?” Oliver stood and faced away. A stupid thing to do, but he suddenly couldn’t stand to look at, much less touch, this man he’d called friend.
“Do you ever wonder about Hachi village?” Oliver didn’t flinch visibly, but he felt the question like a punch to the kidney. “Why four companies were sent to attack one tiny village so far from the front line?”
“Shut up. We don’t fucking talk about that.”
“What is it we can’t talk about, Oliver? What we did to those children? To their corpses, after they were dead?”
Oliver grabbed the front of the doctor’s nightshirt, jerked the older man to his feet and slammed him against the wall, desperate to make him shut up. “We were just following orders. We had to show the rats we were serious. Make them lose morale.”
“And what did we lose, Oliver? If you could see how much this war has changed you...”
“Me? How about the way the war has changed you, Jim? You’re a traitor. You’re helping the enemy! Have you forgotten the Boardman farm? Lewis Farm? Seragi valley?"
“And how many Hachi villages have there been? Oliver, it just doesn’t matter anymore. This isn’t a war we should win.”
There was no use arguing with him; James was nothing if not stubborn. “They’ll hang you for this.”
“Yeah, but unless I’m really lucky, not for a long time yet. Please, let me call Sasha. She’ll need her contingency plan.” James held out his hand in mute request.
“No. No, I won’t let you go. You can’t fucking leave me here.” Oliver banged him into the wall again. Crumpling, he rested his forehead against the hands fisted in James’ pajamas.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“For Misha’s sake, what am I supposed to do now?”
James tried to laugh. "You're asking me? Do what you have to do. I won't try to stop you. Just please--for the friendship we used to have--let me call my wife."
Oliver just shook his head, denying the situation more than the request. He couldn't report James. He couldn’t even allow the man to commit suicide, because without James he was alone here. “Why would you do such a thing?” Oliver asked, voice barely over a whisper.
James watched the ceiling rather than meet his friend’s eyes. “Because it finally stopped the nightmares.”
The shudder that went through Oliver’s body transmitted itself to the doctor. When Oliver spoke, his voice was sandpaper: “Get rid of the pills. I never want to see that shit again.” He walked out of the infirmary without a word or backwards glance, though he could feel the doctor's eyes upon him. Back in his office, he discovered there wasn't enough alcohol: barely a quarter of a bottle of brandy, and no sleeping pills to go with it. Oliver made do, poisoning his mind until the thoughts slowed and he could slip into alcohol-muddled nightmares.
CHAPTER THREE
Oliver stared at the numbers on the typed report. That fucking bastard. Despite the special treatment meant to isolate him, and despite how closely he was being watched by the guards, Guiterrez was managing to make the captain’s life hell. It had been gradual enough that Oliver hadn’t identified it just from the daily totals. But over two weeks the slowdown was blatant. What was worse was that the ones who slowed their work the most had been consistent top producers. Punishing them with executions, beatings or even loss of rations would seriously deplete the labor force, and with the numbers so skewed it was harder to identify the dead weight for the culling at the end of the month. There simply wasn’t enough to feed the weak.
He chose one of the workers who had halved his production and gave his orders. The next morning the prisoners were assembled after breakfast to watch the whipping. Harvey laid the rat’s back open with the first strike. On the fifty-ninth the prisoner fell unconscious and Oliver signaled for him to be cut down and bandaged. The majority of the prisoners were directed to the coal mine, while a dozen were escorted to their duties in the kitchen. Guiterrez was among the latter, and he glared at the captain with ice in his eyes. The captain met his gaze, daring him to continue his little game.
One and a half weeks later it was clear that Guiterrez had won. The whippings had continued, sometimes twice daily, but the production just kept dropping. Oliver told the guards to keep them in the mine until they had met quota, but that just resulted in more accidents without affecting totals. The captain sat in silent anger, waiting for the call from Command that would mean he was relieved of his duties, and cursing himself for not executing the rat the minute he arrived in camp. It was too late now; from watching the prisoners during the whippings, he was certain Guiterrez was the only thing standing between the prisoners and open revolt. Martyr him and Command would have to raze the camp just to stop the riots.
Still, Oliver couldn’t afford to invite Guiterrez to negotiations, so he was glad when the rat requested to speak with him instead. He was less pleased to find out what Guiterrez wanted to speak to him about. “You want me to shut down C tunnel.”
The prisoner inclined his head. “The support beams are badly placed. It is in imminent danger of collapse.”
Oliver scowled. “If I shut down the tunnel, you’ll stop the work slow-down?”
“No. We’ll resume the usual pace when you stop recording individuals’ production.”
It was such an unexpected demand that Oliver answered honestly, “But we need those records to find out who hasn’t been doing their share.”
“For the cullings,” Guiterrez agreed.
Oliver shook his head in wonder. “You want me to stop the cullings.”
Guiterrez nodded.
“That isn’t possible,” Oliver protested. “There isn’t enough food to go around. We stop culling and everyone starves.”
The prisoner cocked his head and watched Oliver with the beginnings of an unnerving smile. The tactician was plotting something. “What kind of leverage would you need to requisition more rations?”
The captain shook his head. “Leverage? It doesn’t work like that. There’s a set amount of food allocated for the camp, and that only ever goes down.” After a moment of thought, he said, “If production were to double or something, I could probably get enough to feed all the prisoners, but I don’t see that happening.”
“Of course not. But what if I guaranteed you a production of, say...” He named a figure that made Oliver start laughing.
Feeling magnanimous, if a bit silly to even entertain the idea, Oliver promised, “If you increase production by that much, I’ll stop the cullings.”
Guiterrez nodded. “I’ll take you at your word. What about C tunnel?”
The captain wasn’t going to budge on that one. “It passed Command’s inspection. We keep using it until it’s exhausted.”
Five weeks later, Oliver had received an official commendation from his superiors: the camp had exceeded quota by thirty percent for the fourth week straight. The captain had only had to hint that he needed more food supplies for Command to promise him as much as he required. He ordered a private to bring him Guiterrez in order to assure the rebel leader he would be keeping his part of the bargain. Moments later, one of the guards assigned to the mine burst through the door, gasping and dripping sweat. Oliver was halfway to the door, dread certainty in his stomach, even before the exhausted man gasped, “It’s the mine. One of the tunnels collapsed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Captain Oliver ran all the way to the mine, outdistancing most of the other guards who had been summoned. Tunnel C had collapsed during routine inspection, and five of his men were trapped or dead, along with a dozen prisoners. Surveying the rubble, the same thought kept repeating over and over in his head: “They said it was safe.” The inspector from command had been completely confident on that point.
Oliver had to assume that the miners and soldiers had been trapped inside and were waiting for rescue. How long would the air last? The rats were standing around, doing nothing. He ordered them to start clearing the tunnel, but they acted as if they didn’t understand. He didn’t have time to deal with them. Calling to six guards, he started them on moving the rubble as quickly as possible. He pitched in himself, and soon his uniform was torn and stained with sweat and dust. He felt feverish, and he didn’t know how long he worked before a beefy hand landed on his shoulder.
It was Mantay. The rat had dared to touch--to restrain, even--the commander of the Eastern prison camp. Obviously the first beating hadn’t taught the rat respect. Oliver reached for his pistol, only belatedly remembering that he had handed his belt and weapon to one of the other guards when it had started getting in the way. Looking up at Mantay, Oliver became uncomfortably aware that, exhausted from digging out the tunnel and with the prisoner unshackled, the outcome of a fight was likely to be in the rat’s favor.
Mantay just raised his eyebrows and said, in a tone that made it clear he had been repeating it for some time, “You must stop digging now.”
“Mishra curse you, I have men who may be trapped in there! Get out of my way.” Oliver tried to push past but the rat stopped him with one hand on his chest.
“I was a miner for twenty years. I have good rock sense. You dig more, you’ll collapse the tunnel more, everyone will die. You need these beams.” The rats who had been ignoring his orders had managed to haul in a couple of massive support beams from the tunnel’s entrance and were waiting for him to get out of the way to install them.
“We don’t have time! They’ll suffocate soon.”
“If we push through a pipe, theyget air, and we’ll be able to talk to them.” Like a magic trick, two rats appeared behind him lugging a long, thin pipe.
“Oh,” Oliver said. It was embarrassing to rely on a rat’s help, but the man obviously did know mining. “Right. Men, we’re going to try to push this metal pipe through near the top of the tunnel. If we can get it to where they’re trapped, they’ll have fresh air and we may be able to hear them. We raise it on three. One...” Again Mantay blocked him. “What now?”
“You’re too tired, you’ll only cause accidents. You rest. We’ll work now.” When Oliver tried to push past once again, Mantay shoved him over, and the captain’s legs were too weak to stand. “This a long run, not a sprint. It will take many many hours, maybe days. We’ll need fresh workers every three hours.” Days? Oliver was horrified. If Mantay was right, they would definitely need to work in shifts. “And Captain? Bring Guiterrez. We need him.”
Oliver desperately wished he weren’t right, but looking around he could already see the power shifting: the guards were too exhausted from digging to pay close attention to the rats, and they were outnumbered four to one. Guiterrez was probably the only one with the influence to keep the prisoners from attacking the guards. Unless, of course, the tactician decided this was the perfect opportunity to revolt.
Guessing the source of the commander’s hesitations, Mantay said simply, “Those trapped men are our brothers. We won’t leave them behind.”
Oliver made his choice.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fifty-three hours after the tunnel collapse, the trapped miners crawled out of their stone tomb. They were weak with thirst and hunger and a number had broken limbs. One of the guards had his leg crushed by a falling boulder; it had to be amputated. One of the rats had a broken arm and another had a cracked collarbone and a serious concussion. But all seventeen were alive. Oliver stood at the tunnel entrance, clasping forearms with each of the guards as they emerged, and he noticed Guiterrez opposite him, embracing the rescued prisoners. As if sensing his gaze the rebel looked over at the captain and nodded, one leader to another.
Despite hours of harrowing surgery amputating the guard’s leg, James was almost glowing as he sat in Oliver’s office, drinking a glass of wine in celebration. “Farnsworth will pull through. I’m sure of it,” he proclaimed.
Oliver snorted. “I thought you were a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to be worried about complications and secondary infections and such not?” The captain was still wary around the traitor, but he had so few connections in this place he found he couldn’t cut off his old friend.
“Yes, yes,” he said, brushing away the concern with one expressive hand, “but I have a feeling about this one. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut. Besides, there was hardly any sign of infection even two days after the initial injury, and the blood loss was minimal, considering the extent of the injury.”
“No infection? But I thought those rats stuffed the injury with mold.” It had been a truly disgusting sight.
“Mold and moss. I can’t explain it yet, but believe me I’ll be investigating. The moss stopped the bleeding very quickly, and I suspect the mold has antibacterial properties even stronger than fisk root.”
Oliver sat back and listened to his old friend expound on the possible benefits of this discovery. He savored the cheap wine, and realized it was the first drink he’d had since the cave-in. Between the long hours and the intense physical labor, he’d been sleeping better than he had in many months. James cleared his throat pointedly, and Oliver forced himself to concentrate. “Sorry, what was that?”
James’ mood had darkened considerably. “I asked you what you intended to do with the injured prisoners. It’ll be a month before twelve seventy-two can use his right arm, and eleven-oh-nine’s broken collarbone will prevent him for working at all for at least that long. Are you going to execute them or wait for them to starve to death?”
Oliver swore softly to himself. With C tunnel gone there was no way the camp could have met its production quota for the week, even if they hadn’t spent the last three days rescuing the trapped miners. It might take weeks to develop another tunnel to be as profitable, and Command wasn’t known for its patience. The extra food wouldn’t last once production fell again. Executing the injured ones who couldn’t work was the only sensible, humane thing to do. Still, he hesitated.
Finding those seventeen men alive, after all that effort, had been a small miracle. It also meant that enemies had sat quietly for days, side-by-side in the section of uncollapsed tunnel. In the dark and the dust, the rats could have easily overpowered and killed the few guards. Instead they had tended to the soldier with the crushed leg; James had no doubt they’d saved the boy’s life.
“Neither. They can work kitchen duty until they’ve recovered. Their rations will have to be reduced, but they won’t starve. And wipe that surprised look off your face. You knew full well I wasn’t going to let them die.” James’ artful look of surprise morphed into a smug grin. “Oh, like that expression’s any better, you insufferable bastard.” Oliver yawned and leaned back in his chair, letting his eye fall closed.
It sprang open again when he felt someone removing his eyepatch. He looked up into James’ warm brown eyes framed with crinkled laugh lines. “You shouldn’t wear it so much. You’re getting chafing.” James’ fingers brushed over the irritated skin on the cheek below his missing eye, and Oliver felt the stir of helpless arousal at the tender touch.
“James,” he groaned as the older man helped him stand, lowering him down onto the cot in the corner of his office. It was wrong. James had Sasha; he no longer needed the comfort of another soldier’s touch to take him away from the horrors of battle. And Oliver shouldn’t--couldn’t--want this. Even if it was the first time in months another human had touched him and not left a bruise.
“Hush, Oliver. Just rest.”
Oliver let his eyes fall closed to better appreciate the blunt fingers combing through his hair. Even without pills or liquor, he soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
To be continued... possibly... if I get any feedback...
CHAPTER ONE
Captain Oliver woke suddenly. He straightened in his chair and winced. Falling asleep on his desk caused all of his neck and shoulder muscles to cramp, but he’d been doing it more and more frequently of late. He ran his fingers through his military brush cut and checked that his eye patch was still in place. Five months ago, falling asleep on the job would have earned him a knife across the throat from a rebel scout. That was before he had lost his right eye and with it his active duty assignment.
The captain stood and put on his uniform jacket and cap before going to inspect camp. He picked up his flail and checked it carefully, even though he was certain he had gotten all of the blood off during the previous night’s cleaning. Before stepping outside he pulled his revolver, checked the ammo and returned it to its holster with practiced motions. He walked towards the camp’s one entrance, where a truck was already unloading the prisoners. He could tell that these rats had come straight from the front: they didn’t have the sunken, dull eyes that marked transferred prisoners. Sergeant Harvey was keeping them silent with just the sound of his riding crop slapping against his thigh. When one of the shackled men began to whisper to his neighbor, Harvey was on them instantly, his weapon leaving bloody welts on their arms and shoulders.
Oliver frowned at the line. There were three sets of empty shackles. It was army policy to only count the prisoners when they reached a prison camp, but it was difficult enough reaching coal quotas without healthy prisoners being killed in transport. He looked for the driver, but he was missing. So were several of the guards who should have been watching the gates. “Sergeant,” he barked, “where the hell are the rest of the guards?”
Harvey snapped an automatic salute. “They’re reeducating a prisoner, sir.”
Under his breath, Oliver cursed his assignment as commander of the eastern labor camp and the men who supposedly followed his orders. Returning the salute, he set out at a brisk jog towards the back of the cantina, one of the few places in the camp that was not visible to his office or the guard towers. He heard the familiar sounds of flesh being struck just before he rounded the corner and saw the “reeducation” taking place. A prisoner was pinned flat on the ground by a boot on the side of his head. A soldier was taking his turn kicking the prone man in the side and stomach while a man Oliver didn’t recognize-doubtless the driver-knelt on the victim’s legs to keep him immobile. From his light skin, the victim was clearly a half-breed, which was unusual enough to have gotten the guards’ particular attentions.
“Stop!” The soldiers, accustomed to obeying that tone of command without question, backed away and saluted. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Command has once again increased the expected production of this mine, and we haven’t been meeting quotas as it is. The only way we will meet this week’s goal is for these additional prisoners to be able to work. That is the reason-the ONLY reason-we are here, men. To make sure the work gets done. If the prisoners are unable to work, I swear to Misha it will be you four down in the tunnels.” The captain stared down his men. “Privates Malloy, Harrison and Jacobs. Consecutive latrine duty for three weeks each. Lieutenant Fawkes, you’ll be overseeing the mine for the next month. And go put on a fresh uniform; you have blood on your collar. As for you,” he said, turning to the driver, “your CO will hear about this. You are all dismissed; get the hell back to your stations right now.”
The men left, their angry grumbling too quiet for Oliver to call them on it. He knelt next to the prisoner, who was slowly sitting up and pulling his rough-spun shirt down to cover his injuries. A bruise on his right side was already turning dark; there was likely internal bleeding. Oliver grabbed his elbow to help him to his feet but froze when the prisoner turned to face him. “You,” Oliver exclaimed. Even with one eye swollen mostly shut and a broken nose, the captain couldn’t fail to recognize the rebel leader whose face was smeared across a hundred war posters. “You’re the younger Guiterrez.”
Staggering to his feet under his own power, the darker man said, “If you expect me to thank you, you will be disappointed.” He spoke softly with an upper-class, cultured accent. Oliver struck the man’s jaw. Did the uppity rat really think that just because he spoke like an educated man, he would be treated as one? Guiterrez didn’t flinch from the blow and met the captain’s eyes, goading him to strike again.
Oliver’s anger died suddenly. There was a ghost of something he recognized in the prisoner’s level gaze. Looking closer, the camp commander could see the delicate scars tracing his hands and arms. This man had been reported captured two months ago, and had doubtless spent the intervening time under the care of Central’s most talented interrogators. In his career the captain had met a number of those cold-eyed men with surgeon’s fingers, and he counted himself lucky to have only witnessed them in action twice. He had seen the results of their work more often; their prisoners usually arrived at the camp as zombies who wouldn’t eat or sleep unless ordered and would soil themselves or collapse shaking at loud noises. Fortunately, they usually recovered basic functionality within a couple of weeks left in the care of their fellow prisoners. Judging from the fresh scars, this man had recovered with astonishing speed. Guiterrez returned the captain’s scrutiny with quick blue eyes that almost hid the hollowness of old terror.
Trying to ignore the scrutiny, the captain escorted Guiterrez back to the other new arrivals, pleased to see that James was already examining them. Each was instructed to perform a number of exercises and to cough. The previous commander of the Eastern prisoner’s camp had resigned in disgrace after nearly all of his prisoners had died from the red cough; Oliver would rather execute all these prisoners as contaminated than risk a repeat. When he was finished, the doctor reported in an undertone, “The majority are in good health. Remarkably well-fed, considering the famine. Fifth from the right has an infected cut on his back; I’ll lance it and clean it out. Should be obvious in a few days whether or not he’ll make it. Third from the right has a torn tendon in his knee. He won’t be able to work.”
Oliver walked down the line, confirming what the doctor had reported. The rats were remarkably well-fed, without the sunken eyes or bloated stomachs he was accustomed to seeing from prisoners and was starting to see even among Central’s civilian population. How were the rebels surviving a three-year famine that should have wiped them out completely, given how much the dogs had always relied on the Central government’s charitable handouts? Oliver didn’t have time to figure it out now: he needed to put on a show that would keep the bastards in line.
The camp commander didn’t hesitate when he reached the man with the torn tendon. He wrapped an arm around the back of the prisoner’s neck, grabbed his chin, and pulled firmly. Oliver felt the spine snap and let the body fall. The captain fully expected the gasp of shock from the prisoners and the enraged attack, but not the latter’s speed. Before he could elbow his attacker in the nose, a dark, thick arm snaked around his neck from behind and lifted him off his feet. Oliver stomped a booted foot onto one of the assailant’s bare ones and jerked his head back, feeling the head-butt connect and break the man’s nose. Unfortunately, his arm didn’t loosen at all. There was shouting as soldiers tried to find a way to shoot the prisoner without endangering their commanding officer and the sound of gunfire as they tried to scare the attacker. Oliver felt fingers on his jaw turning his head to the right, but didn’t register the rat’s intentions until his head was slowly rotated beyond ninety degrees and his neck muscles began to tear. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Mantay, stop! Release him.” The voice’s unmistakable authority cut through all the other noise, and Oliver’s jaw-if not his throat-was released. The captain could only blink at the pale brown hand that rested on the arm encircling his throat.
“He killed Gupta. Like he was just an animal to be put down.” The low voice rumbled under Oliver’s ear, and the captain could feel that the large man was tensed to the breaking point.
“Mantay, we both know he wouldn’t have lasted a week here, not with his leg hurt like that. At least he died quick. Now let the white man go.” Black dots were creeping in from the edges of Oliver’s vision, blotting everything out. When he was suddenly released he stumbled forward, hands grabbing onto someone to keep from falling down. Gasping and choking on the fresh air, the captain’s sight cleared enough to see blue eyes in a brown face; Oliver discovered that his hand was gripping Guiterrez’s shoulder for support. The rebel leader frowned and gripped his shoulder in return-hard. “You owe me. Don’t kill Mantay.”
Then Harvey was there, crop swinging, and the support was gone. “Captain! Are you all right, sir? I’ll take care of the damned rabid beast,” Harvey offered, pulling his pistol and taking aim at Mantay.
“Don’t.”
Harvey paused, cocked his head. “Did you want to kill him yourself, sir?”
The camp commander took a deep breath, pleased that the bruising around his throat wasn’t too bad. “Put shackles on his feet, but not on his hands. And take this.” He handed Harvey his pistol, overrode the soldier’s protests and watched as another man shackled Mantay. Oliver took a rifle from one of the guards, unloaded it and turned to stare down his opponent, who was standing relaxed but ready. The soldiers had gotten in a few good hits; one of Mantay’s eyes was swelling shut and his nose was broken, but he seemed otherwise uninjured.
“What’s your number?”
A mutinous expression crossed Mantay’s face, but he looked to Guiterrez, who shook his head slightly. “Sixteen hundred and thirty-one,” the man growled.
Oliver stripped out of his uniform jacket. “Prisoner one-six-three-one, in my fourteen months here you’re the first rat to get the drop on me. You have my full attention now. When you come at me this time, none of the guards will stop you.”
Mantay looked at the other soldiers, his suspicion obvious when he turned to face the camp commander. He had at least three inches and ninety pounds on the wiry captain. “You gonna beat me down with an empty gun?”
Oliver’s smile could have cut glass. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
From the first charge, Mantay’s strategy was obvious: get in close and rip the rifle away or pin the smaller man. Still, his speed managed to catch Oliver off guard again. The captain rolled with the punch to his stomach, going into a backward somersault and regaining his feet just in time to sidestep another blow. He immediately caught the larger man in the jaw with a side snap before knocking the air out of him with a spinning back-kick to the sternum. A quick blow to the skull with the butt of the rifle would have put him down for the count, but Mantay blocked and sent the captain flying with a backhand. The smaller man tasted blood. Oliver managed to sweep his opponent, but staggered when Mantay landed a solid kick from the ground that made his knee buckle. Oliver rolled away again and threw Mantay the next time he charged. Immediately Oliver was on top of him, straddling his chest and once again striking his temple with the butt of the gun. Mantay’s hands closed around the captain’s bruised throat. Before Harvey could interfere, Oliver struck the inside of his opponent’s elbows hard enough to loosen the grip and twisted up and out of reach. Mantay stumbled to his feet, the glazed look in his eyes suggesting that he had a concussion.
From that point on the fight became more of a beating, as Mantay could no longer block the side-thrusts and roundhouse kicks that Oliver rained down while staying just out of the reach of the prisoner’s arms. Still, the captain was sweating and red-faced by the time Mantay was no longer able to rise. The camp commander gestured the doctor over to check on the fallen fighter and quickly did a check of his own teeth and jaw, pleased to find them intact. Glancing at the prisoners, he was pleased to see that they seemed suitably cowed; all except Guiterrez, who was watching the captain with an inscrutable expression.
“As soon as the doc’s done checking him over, I want prisoner one-six-three-one shackled hand and food and chained to the bunk nearest the door. He won’t be eating for the next three days. Get the rest assigned to work crews, fed and locked in for the night. Except him,” Oliver pointed to Guiterrez. “Have the doctor take a look and then bring him to my office.” With his jacket over his arm, the captain walked stiffly away after retrieving his pistol, stopping by the infirmary for an ice pack and a few painkillers before returning to his office. He stripped off his dirty, bloodstained undershirt, wondering if it came from his split lip or Mantay’s bloody nose. He filled the sink with cold water and plunged his face in, swishing some around in his mouth to rinse out the cut there. Hearing a rap on the door, he pulled on a clean shirt and called, “Come in.”
“What did the doctor say?” He asked the young soldier escorting Guiterrez.
“Sir! He said there was heavy bruising on prisoner one-four-seven-five, but nothing life-threatening. He recommended light work for the next few days, sir!”
“Good. You’re dismissed.” They saluted each other and the young soldier began to pull Guiterrez out. “Leave the prisoner.” The guard looked as if he wanted to protest, but thought better of it and left.
The captain walked to the corner cabinet where he kept glasses and a pitcher of water. There was brandy too, but Oliver was trying to ignore it until tonight at least. He filled two glasses with water and put one on the desk in front of Guiterrez, who was looking around the office with a measuring gaze. Oliver sat and drank while watching the other man, trying to understand why Command had sent the former rebel commander to a small prisoner camp. The younger Guiterrez was commonly acknowledged--and cursed--as a tactical genius. If they were finished interrogating him, why would he be placed at a prison camp instead of executed and his body paraded through the streets? Frankly, it made Oliver nervous to have the man in his custody. It was only a matter of time until the next riot, and the captain didn’t want one to succeed on his watch. Which left Oliver with two choices: summarily execute Guiterrez and risk a reprimand from his superiors, or find a way to turn the other prisoners against him.
Assuring himself that the decision wasn’t because the man had saved his life, Oliver made his pitch: “I’ve decided to take you under my protection. You’re a quick thinker, and I think the other prisoners may listen to you, so you’ll be my go-between. You should be able to understand just how precarious this camp’s position is. If our production falls further below quota, if there’s an outbreak of the cough, or if there’s a riot, Command won’t bother to transport all of the prisoners to other camps; they’ll just raze the camp. So I need you to keep the others in line, let me know what’s brewing while I can still head it off. You’ll get permanent light duty and a larger food ration, not to mention protection from the guards.”
“If I refuse?”
First the carrot, then the stick. They both knew how it worked. “The one who attacked me will be executed at dawn.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then it seems I must accept your gracious offer.”
“Good. This arrangement should benefit us both, prisoner one-four-seven-five.” He had caved quickly; it seemed that, reputation nonwithstanding, the younger Guiterrez was going to be managable. Oliver touched a button on his desk and spoke into the intercom: “Private? Come fetch the prisoner. Get him dinner and take him to the barracks.”
The prisoner shuffled out with his escort, who was staring at the half-breed with a mix of hatred and awe. Oliver realized that protecting the former rebel leader from the guards wouldn’t be a simple task. He’d have to talk to second leutenant Forge about it in the morning.
Oliver sat in his empty office, fingering his dog tags. It was still early in the afternoon; he could call his wife, ask her to prepare a meal for four tonight, and be home in time for dinner with his family. He dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Anne. How are you?”
“…Great! I’m just great, honey.” Anxious. Wondering if she had been found out.
Oliver felt a spike of anger, but it dissipated almost immediately. How could he expect his wife to be faithful when he had been shutting her out for so long? She needed someone who would come home every night and talk about his day, his little hopes and fears. Someone who would tell her about the nightmares when he woke covered in sweat and trying to escape her embrace. Oliver couldn’t do that for her, not anymore.
He wouldn’t divorce her, not when his military position was the only thing guaranteeing that she and their two children received full meat and milk rations. As long as she was discreet, she deserved to find comfort where she could. Maybe she’d find a better father for the children.
“I can’t come home tonight. I’m sorry, Anne. There’s just too much work I have to finish.”
“That’s all right.” Too quick, too cheery. She didn’t even try to pull him home anymore. “I understand how important your job is. Are you eating well, dear?” The unasked question: are you still drinking yourself to sleep at night?
“Yes, Anne, I am. Give my love to the children.” He hung up the phone and poured himself the first glass of brandy.
CHAPTER TWO
It was between three and four o’clock when Oliver finally gave up on falling asleep without a sedative. He didn’t wake James; the nosy bastard would know immediately that he had been drinking and refuse to give him drugs. Worse, the doctor might try to get him to talk about the nightmares. There were things that shouldn’t be talked about, ever. He and James had gone to war together, so the doctor should have understood that rule. Oliver used his master key to open the clinic’s medicine cabinet and stole one of the medicine bottles way in the back so James wouldn’t notice immediately. When he shook out half a dozen of the pills in his hand, he paused. The green tablets had been replaced by large white-and-pink capsules that seemed familliar. When he remembered where he’d seen them, he dropped the bottle, and the damning pills scattered across the floor.
It was the oral vaccine for the red cough. All military personnel and the civilian population had received the vaccine years ago, which meant the only population at risk for the red cough were newborns and rebels.
Frantic now, Oliver pulled bottles from the cabinet and started dumping them on the counter, scattering about pills and capsules of all sizes and shapes. But over and over again, regardless of the label, the bottle was filled with the white-and-pink capsules. If it had been one or two bottles, or of a little-used type, he could have believed Jim was unaware of the smuggling. With this kind of evidence, though... “Jim, damn you, what have you done?” he cursed aloud, then whirled about when the door to the doctor’s apartment opened.
James stood there, rumpled in his bedclothes. “Oliver? What are you doing ...?” What James saw in Oliver’s face stopped him cold even before he noticed the vaccine pills.
James threw himself back inside his room, but Oliver lunged forward and wedged his foot inside before the man could close the door. Giving up, James scrambled over the bed and reached for his bedside table. Oliver grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him back, but James already had the weapon in his hand. Oliver grappled with him, pitting rage against the other’s desperation, and he managed to pin the other’s wrists to the bed. It was at this point that he realized the supposed weapon was a wristwatch.
James took advantage of the moment’s distraction to break the stronger man’s hold. He squeezed the link next to the watch’s catch, which popped open to reveal an amber-colored pill nestled inside. Terror surged inside Oliver. He clapped one hand over James’s mouth while trying to snatch away the cyanide pill with the other. James clenched the suicide pill in his fist and struggled to get it into his mouth but he was outmatched. After a desperate struggle, he sagged against the bed and let Oliver confiscate the pill.
“You son of a bitch, you traitor!” Oliver managed past the fear that still threatened to close his throat. “I can’t believe that you would . . .”
“I’m sorry,” James said, barely louder than a whisper.
“Why? What made you turn traitor?” Oliver stood and faced away. A stupid thing to do, but he suddenly couldn’t stand to look at, much less touch, this man he’d called friend.
“Do you ever wonder about Hachi village?” Oliver didn’t flinch visibly, but he felt the question like a punch to the kidney. “Why four companies were sent to attack one tiny village so far from the front line?”
“Shut up. We don’t fucking talk about that.”
“What is it we can’t talk about, Oliver? What we did to those children? To their corpses, after they were dead?”
Oliver grabbed the front of the doctor’s nightshirt, jerked the older man to his feet and slammed him against the wall, desperate to make him shut up. “We were just following orders. We had to show the rats we were serious. Make them lose morale.”
“And what did we lose, Oliver? If you could see how much this war has changed you...”
“Me? How about the way the war has changed you, Jim? You’re a traitor. You’re helping the enemy! Have you forgotten the Boardman farm? Lewis Farm? Seragi valley?"
“And how many Hachi villages have there been? Oliver, it just doesn’t matter anymore. This isn’t a war we should win.”
There was no use arguing with him; James was nothing if not stubborn. “They’ll hang you for this.”
“Yeah, but unless I’m really lucky, not for a long time yet. Please, let me call Sasha. She’ll need her contingency plan.” James held out his hand in mute request.
“No. No, I won’t let you go. You can’t fucking leave me here.” Oliver banged him into the wall again. Crumpling, he rested his forehead against the hands fisted in James’ pajamas.
“I’m sorry, Oliver. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“For Misha’s sake, what am I supposed to do now?”
James tried to laugh. "You're asking me? Do what you have to do. I won't try to stop you. Just please--for the friendship we used to have--let me call my wife."
Oliver just shook his head, denying the situation more than the request. He couldn't report James. He couldn’t even allow the man to commit suicide, because without James he was alone here. “Why would you do such a thing?” Oliver asked, voice barely over a whisper.
James watched the ceiling rather than meet his friend’s eyes. “Because it finally stopped the nightmares.”
The shudder that went through Oliver’s body transmitted itself to the doctor. When Oliver spoke, his voice was sandpaper: “Get rid of the pills. I never want to see that shit again.” He walked out of the infirmary without a word or backwards glance, though he could feel the doctor's eyes upon him. Back in his office, he discovered there wasn't enough alcohol: barely a quarter of a bottle of brandy, and no sleeping pills to go with it. Oliver made do, poisoning his mind until the thoughts slowed and he could slip into alcohol-muddled nightmares.
CHAPTER THREE
Oliver stared at the numbers on the typed report. That fucking bastard. Despite the special treatment meant to isolate him, and despite how closely he was being watched by the guards, Guiterrez was managing to make the captain’s life hell. It had been gradual enough that Oliver hadn’t identified it just from the daily totals. But over two weeks the slowdown was blatant. What was worse was that the ones who slowed their work the most had been consistent top producers. Punishing them with executions, beatings or even loss of rations would seriously deplete the labor force, and with the numbers so skewed it was harder to identify the dead weight for the culling at the end of the month. There simply wasn’t enough to feed the weak.
He chose one of the workers who had halved his production and gave his orders. The next morning the prisoners were assembled after breakfast to watch the whipping. Harvey laid the rat’s back open with the first strike. On the fifty-ninth the prisoner fell unconscious and Oliver signaled for him to be cut down and bandaged. The majority of the prisoners were directed to the coal mine, while a dozen were escorted to their duties in the kitchen. Guiterrez was among the latter, and he glared at the captain with ice in his eyes. The captain met his gaze, daring him to continue his little game.
One and a half weeks later it was clear that Guiterrez had won. The whippings had continued, sometimes twice daily, but the production just kept dropping. Oliver told the guards to keep them in the mine until they had met quota, but that just resulted in more accidents without affecting totals. The captain sat in silent anger, waiting for the call from Command that would mean he was relieved of his duties, and cursing himself for not executing the rat the minute he arrived in camp. It was too late now; from watching the prisoners during the whippings, he was certain Guiterrez was the only thing standing between the prisoners and open revolt. Martyr him and Command would have to raze the camp just to stop the riots.
Still, Oliver couldn’t afford to invite Guiterrez to negotiations, so he was glad when the rat requested to speak with him instead. He was less pleased to find out what Guiterrez wanted to speak to him about. “You want me to shut down C tunnel.”
The prisoner inclined his head. “The support beams are badly placed. It is in imminent danger of collapse.”
Oliver scowled. “If I shut down the tunnel, you’ll stop the work slow-down?”
“No. We’ll resume the usual pace when you stop recording individuals’ production.”
It was such an unexpected demand that Oliver answered honestly, “But we need those records to find out who hasn’t been doing their share.”
“For the cullings,” Guiterrez agreed.
Oliver shook his head in wonder. “You want me to stop the cullings.”
Guiterrez nodded.
“That isn’t possible,” Oliver protested. “There isn’t enough food to go around. We stop culling and everyone starves.”
The prisoner cocked his head and watched Oliver with the beginnings of an unnerving smile. The tactician was plotting something. “What kind of leverage would you need to requisition more rations?”
The captain shook his head. “Leverage? It doesn’t work like that. There’s a set amount of food allocated for the camp, and that only ever goes down.” After a moment of thought, he said, “If production were to double or something, I could probably get enough to feed all the prisoners, but I don’t see that happening.”
“Of course not. But what if I guaranteed you a production of, say...” He named a figure that made Oliver start laughing.
Feeling magnanimous, if a bit silly to even entertain the idea, Oliver promised, “If you increase production by that much, I’ll stop the cullings.”
Guiterrez nodded. “I’ll take you at your word. What about C tunnel?”
The captain wasn’t going to budge on that one. “It passed Command’s inspection. We keep using it until it’s exhausted.”
Five weeks later, Oliver had received an official commendation from his superiors: the camp had exceeded quota by thirty percent for the fourth week straight. The captain had only had to hint that he needed more food supplies for Command to promise him as much as he required. He ordered a private to bring him Guiterrez in order to assure the rebel leader he would be keeping his part of the bargain. Moments later, one of the guards assigned to the mine burst through the door, gasping and dripping sweat. Oliver was halfway to the door, dread certainty in his stomach, even before the exhausted man gasped, “It’s the mine. One of the tunnels collapsed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Captain Oliver ran all the way to the mine, outdistancing most of the other guards who had been summoned. Tunnel C had collapsed during routine inspection, and five of his men were trapped or dead, along with a dozen prisoners. Surveying the rubble, the same thought kept repeating over and over in his head: “They said it was safe.” The inspector from command had been completely confident on that point.
Oliver had to assume that the miners and soldiers had been trapped inside and were waiting for rescue. How long would the air last? The rats were standing around, doing nothing. He ordered them to start clearing the tunnel, but they acted as if they didn’t understand. He didn’t have time to deal with them. Calling to six guards, he started them on moving the rubble as quickly as possible. He pitched in himself, and soon his uniform was torn and stained with sweat and dust. He felt feverish, and he didn’t know how long he worked before a beefy hand landed on his shoulder.
It was Mantay. The rat had dared to touch--to restrain, even--the commander of the Eastern prison camp. Obviously the first beating hadn’t taught the rat respect. Oliver reached for his pistol, only belatedly remembering that he had handed his belt and weapon to one of the other guards when it had started getting in the way. Looking up at Mantay, Oliver became uncomfortably aware that, exhausted from digging out the tunnel and with the prisoner unshackled, the outcome of a fight was likely to be in the rat’s favor.
Mantay just raised his eyebrows and said, in a tone that made it clear he had been repeating it for some time, “You must stop digging now.”
“Mishra curse you, I have men who may be trapped in there! Get out of my way.” Oliver tried to push past but the rat stopped him with one hand on his chest.
“I was a miner for twenty years. I have good rock sense. You dig more, you’ll collapse the tunnel more, everyone will die. You need these beams.” The rats who had been ignoring his orders had managed to haul in a couple of massive support beams from the tunnel’s entrance and were waiting for him to get out of the way to install them.
“We don’t have time! They’ll suffocate soon.”
“If we push through a pipe, theyget air, and we’ll be able to talk to them.” Like a magic trick, two rats appeared behind him lugging a long, thin pipe.
“Oh,” Oliver said. It was embarrassing to rely on a rat’s help, but the man obviously did know mining. “Right. Men, we’re going to try to push this metal pipe through near the top of the tunnel. If we can get it to where they’re trapped, they’ll have fresh air and we may be able to hear them. We raise it on three. One...” Again Mantay blocked him. “What now?”
“You’re too tired, you’ll only cause accidents. You rest. We’ll work now.” When Oliver tried to push past once again, Mantay shoved him over, and the captain’s legs were too weak to stand. “This a long run, not a sprint. It will take many many hours, maybe days. We’ll need fresh workers every three hours.” Days? Oliver was horrified. If Mantay was right, they would definitely need to work in shifts. “And Captain? Bring Guiterrez. We need him.”
Oliver desperately wished he weren’t right, but looking around he could already see the power shifting: the guards were too exhausted from digging to pay close attention to the rats, and they were outnumbered four to one. Guiterrez was probably the only one with the influence to keep the prisoners from attacking the guards. Unless, of course, the tactician decided this was the perfect opportunity to revolt.
Guessing the source of the commander’s hesitations, Mantay said simply, “Those trapped men are our brothers. We won’t leave them behind.”
Oliver made his choice.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fifty-three hours after the tunnel collapse, the trapped miners crawled out of their stone tomb. They were weak with thirst and hunger and a number had broken limbs. One of the guards had his leg crushed by a falling boulder; it had to be amputated. One of the rats had a broken arm and another had a cracked collarbone and a serious concussion. But all seventeen were alive. Oliver stood at the tunnel entrance, clasping forearms with each of the guards as they emerged, and he noticed Guiterrez opposite him, embracing the rescued prisoners. As if sensing his gaze the rebel looked over at the captain and nodded, one leader to another.
Despite hours of harrowing surgery amputating the guard’s leg, James was almost glowing as he sat in Oliver’s office, drinking a glass of wine in celebration. “Farnsworth will pull through. I’m sure of it,” he proclaimed.
Oliver snorted. “I thought you were a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to be worried about complications and secondary infections and such not?” The captain was still wary around the traitor, but he had so few connections in this place he found he couldn’t cut off his old friend.
“Yes, yes,” he said, brushing away the concern with one expressive hand, “but I have a feeling about this one. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut. Besides, there was hardly any sign of infection even two days after the initial injury, and the blood loss was minimal, considering the extent of the injury.”
“No infection? But I thought those rats stuffed the injury with mold.” It had been a truly disgusting sight.
“Mold and moss. I can’t explain it yet, but believe me I’ll be investigating. The moss stopped the bleeding very quickly, and I suspect the mold has antibacterial properties even stronger than fisk root.”
Oliver sat back and listened to his old friend expound on the possible benefits of this discovery. He savored the cheap wine, and realized it was the first drink he’d had since the cave-in. Between the long hours and the intense physical labor, he’d been sleeping better than he had in many months. James cleared his throat pointedly, and Oliver forced himself to concentrate. “Sorry, what was that?”
James’ mood had darkened considerably. “I asked you what you intended to do with the injured prisoners. It’ll be a month before twelve seventy-two can use his right arm, and eleven-oh-nine’s broken collarbone will prevent him for working at all for at least that long. Are you going to execute them or wait for them to starve to death?”
Oliver swore softly to himself. With C tunnel gone there was no way the camp could have met its production quota for the week, even if they hadn’t spent the last three days rescuing the trapped miners. It might take weeks to develop another tunnel to be as profitable, and Command wasn’t known for its patience. The extra food wouldn’t last once production fell again. Executing the injured ones who couldn’t work was the only sensible, humane thing to do. Still, he hesitated.
Finding those seventeen men alive, after all that effort, had been a small miracle. It also meant that enemies had sat quietly for days, side-by-side in the section of uncollapsed tunnel. In the dark and the dust, the rats could have easily overpowered and killed the few guards. Instead they had tended to the soldier with the crushed leg; James had no doubt they’d saved the boy’s life.
“Neither. They can work kitchen duty until they’ve recovered. Their rations will have to be reduced, but they won’t starve. And wipe that surprised look off your face. You knew full well I wasn’t going to let them die.” James’ artful look of surprise morphed into a smug grin. “Oh, like that expression’s any better, you insufferable bastard.” Oliver yawned and leaned back in his chair, letting his eye fall closed.
It sprang open again when he felt someone removing his eyepatch. He looked up into James’ warm brown eyes framed with crinkled laugh lines. “You shouldn’t wear it so much. You’re getting chafing.” James’ fingers brushed over the irritated skin on the cheek below his missing eye, and Oliver felt the stir of helpless arousal at the tender touch.
“James,” he groaned as the older man helped him stand, lowering him down onto the cot in the corner of his office. It was wrong. James had Sasha; he no longer needed the comfort of another soldier’s touch to take him away from the horrors of battle. And Oliver shouldn’t--couldn’t--want this. Even if it was the first time in months another human had touched him and not left a bruise.
“Hush, Oliver. Just rest.”
Oliver let his eyes fall closed to better appreciate the blunt fingers combing through his hair. Even without pills or liquor, he soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
To be continued... possibly... if I get any feedback...